Damage
by Sara Jaye
Summary: A series of 30 vignettes about Serge and Gilbert's relationship.
1. Unwelcome Desire

They say the devil hides behind the face of an angel, and after meeting you, I believe it more than ever.

You're so beautiful. That flaxen hair, those lovely green eyes, that delicate face. Anyone who didn't know you could easily mistake you for an angel.

I certainly did. Even after bearing witness to your sinful activities...I just couldn't believe you would willingly participate in such things! I promised myself I'd get to know you more; surely you were a good person.

Then you asked me to kiss your neck in front of all those people, people you tricked and seduced. No wonder they all hated you.

Carl told me you weren't evil, just difficult. But your angelic face can't disguise your sins.

You're a demon, Gilbert Cocteau. Flaunting your sexuality, using people, sleeping around...I shouldn't care that they hate you so much. I should hate you.

I shouldn't have stopped them when they tried to burn your hands that day, but I did. And you belittled me for it.

You always belittle me whenever I try to help you, and when you're not belittling me, you ignore me. Anytime you want to be near me at all, you're trying to seduce me. When I try to avoid you, try not to think about you, there you are contaminating my every thought!

But that isn't the worst of it.

Remember that kiss, Gilbert? The one you forced me into, and I gave in because you were supposedly too strong?

I could have stopped you if I really wanted to.

That's the worst part.

Kurt taunted me for possibly falling in love with you. But this isn't love...love isn't supposed to make you feel this way. Lust? No, I wouldn't go that far...

I suppose it's one of those things you can't assign a name.

All I know is, I've been ensnared by a demon with the face of an angel and can't escape his clutches.

And I don't _want_ to escape.


	2. Addiction

The touch that used to make his skin crawl now lit his nerves on fire. The voice whispering in his ear made him shudder no longer in revulsion, but rather excitement. He looked forward to those cold nights when the boy would sneak into his bed and latch onto him. Annoyance over him being late and breaking curfew had grown into genuine, heartfelt concern for his well-being.

Serge was in love, and he had never been more confused or miserable in his life. Why did it have to be another boy? Why did it have to be _Gilbert?_ Ever since their first meeting, Gilbert had given Serge nothing but mixed signals and many headaches. _I hate you, I desire you, stay away, come close._

The other students had warned him about the boy from day one, pitied Serge for having to room with him. The abuse they hurled at Gilbert was no more than he deserved for his behavior, and sometimes Serge became so frustrated he thought about simply walking away and _letting_ them continue. It wasn't as though Gilbert would notice, anyway. He certainly didn't appreciate Serge stopping it.

_"Goody two-shoes, you make me sick! Stop pretending you care in order to make yourself look so good!"_

Whenever he spoke like that, it didn't seem worth it to jump to his defense. Fine, let him shove his hands into a fire, let him be raped by older boys. But he'd still risked his neck fighting Jack that night, still been there to kill the fire.

There was just something _about _Gilbert that drew Serge closer and closer even as Gilbert tried to push him further and further away with the exception of toying with him.

Chemistry, they called it. Sparks. A flicker of something that blossomed into love. To Serge, the sparks felt more like burning hot fangs that latched onto him and sank in, refusing to let go, much like Gilbert himself. Gilbert was the kind of person who strove to get under the skin, to permeate every fiber of one's being...he coursed through Serge's _blood_ now, hot and boiling.

Trying to rationalize it only got him nowhere; he simply loved the ungrateful wretch of a boy, plain and simple. And when you were in love, nothing made sense. He wanted to protect Gilbert, reach out to him, keep reaching out no matter how many times his hand was slapped away. He wanted to _surrender_, let Gilbert overpower him, enfold him in that sickening embrace and never let him go.

A normal person would do anything to escape, anything to rid themselves of this sickness. But Gilbert was like a Chinese finger trap. The more you tried to break free, the tighter he held.

_You're a drug, Gilbert Cocteau, and I never want to kick my addiction._


End file.
